by M. L. Banner
“Thanks, Bill,” Scott said, in a voice more gravelly than Bill remembered.
“Leave those,” Bill told them, and reluctantly they set their pails of toxic water in the rubble.
~~~
Even though it was still a couple of hours before sunrise, they were preparing a feast for Scott and Kathy. Sally, who had been mostly despondent since the Event, finding comfort only in her bed most days, shone a bit brighter, receiving much needed succor from helping them.
Their guests tore at their food like the feral dogs they often saw on the beach, ripping at the dead fish that daily washed ashore. After the Smiths had their fill, all the Kings helped them get clean using buckets of water and sponges in each bathroom, girls in one, guys in the other. Employing this method, the Kings washed only a couple of times a week. Even then a sponge bath felt excessive, and they were always cautious; everyone was aware of how much water usage Max had calculated per day. This was definitely a splurge. Afterward, Bill gave Scott an I Got Wrecked at the Reef in Rocky Point T-shirt, announcing allegiance to a local restaurant-bar, along with clean shorts. Sally gave Kathy a similar ensemble. They tucked them into the spare bedroom, and then, crying in silence, watched their guests slumber in the same beds Danny and Darla slept in when they were all together.
All agreed that giving solace to their neighbors felt good and was a fine counter to the spreading evil. But they also felt like they were taking some sort of action for Darla and Danny. The inaction drove them all crazy; there was absolutely nothing they could do for their own absent family members, so the Smiths would be their needful replacements.
Everyone returned to their beds, exhausted for many reasons, but only Sally slept.
Bill and Lisa held each other, weeping for their losses and the world’s. After their tears ebbed, they decided to do something with some of their food. They just couldn’t hoard it and let others die. They felt blessed to be in the position they were, reminded that they could have easily been like the Smiths, had it not been for Max. So, they decided to give thanks to God and provide a gift to some of His hungry in the morning.
When they awoke much later that morning, they found the Smiths had left without a word.
14.
Clyde Wants Revenge
Clyde Clydeston woke up pissed at the world, pissed at his aching shoulder, but most of all, pissed at Thompson and the Kings.
Ten days ago, he had awakened in his bathtub after hiding from the previous day’s explosions and gun battle next door. His girlfriend fled after the battle was over, and hadn’t been heard from or seen since. This morning, like every morning, his shoulder was on fire. It started last month when he wanted to show off for her and tried to jump into his Ferrari like Magnum P.I. used to do on his TV show. He missed the damned cockpit, and crashed shoulder- and face-first onto the pavement in front of her, tearing his rotator cuff and breaking his nose. When the gun battle raged, Clyde had jumped into the bathtub for cover, further screwing up his shoulder. He pretended not to be too concerned about the girlfriend—what was her name again?—and rubbed his shoulder as he sat up. He wasn’t going to sweat the little things any more.
In today’s world, there were new realities to deal with. No power, no food, and no water anywhere here or in town, now a three-mile walk away. He tried to use his money to buy supplies there, but no one would sell. Yet that asshole Max Thompson had boasted about preparing for everything including this. Surely, he had more than enough food. And if not him, his buddies the Kings would.
Walking through the walk-in closet to the bedroom, he stopped at the full-length mirror, and stared for a moment at the image staring back at him. Even in the harsh morning light invading his bedroom windows, he looked good. He stroked his formerly bald head, now a mass of gray stubble (shaving was a luxury), along with his new forest of gray and black whiskers merging with his mustache and goatee. An admiring smile broke on his otherwise sour face as he flexed his biceps, pumping up his already elevated self-image. No wonder the women love me, he confirmed, knowing no one would rebut this even if they were here.
Well, it was now survival of the fittest. Either he was going to persuade them to willingly give him some of their food, or he was going to take it. He pulled up his Hawaiian shirt, admiring the .38 tucked in his elastic waistband. It was the only weapon he could get from one of the Mexican gang-bangers. “You bastards kept the AK-47s for yourselves and left us gringos with the pea-shooters,” he had groused at the one who’d sold it to him.
Smiling once more at himself, Clyde turned to walk out onto the patio and start some negotiations with his neighbors, when a knock echoed from his solid front door.
“Who the hell is that?” Clyde yelled to the intruder who interrupted his plans.
“It’s m-m-me,” came the stuttering response, “it’s Judas Feinstein, your neighbor across the street.” His muffled voice feebly penetrated the door, barely audible.
The pervert? Clyde thought. It was that fat, perverted little man who he was sure watched him and others in the neighborhood.
He opened the door and the pervert breezed in as if they were old friends and he had been there many times before, which he had not. “Quick, close the door,” Judas said in a hurried whisper. “Trust me; you don’t want them to see us here, together.”
“Who, those drug dealer assholes? They’ve been gone since the power went out,” Clyde said both curious and amused.
“No, the Kings next door.”
“You’ve been watching them, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and they have food and supplies and you’re going to get it for both of us,” Judas said in a perfunctory and certain manner.
In reality, Judas didn’t know if this plan had any chance of working. He was starving and had to do something. So, last night he’d come up with this scheme and decided to push ahead, waiting as long as he could before daring to wake Clyde. Judas didn’t really know much about Clyde, but he knew that their hate for Thompson was pretty much equal. And with the information Judas had, he hoped to persuade Clyde to help him.
Clyde took a look at this man, who reminded him of the Ferengi on the newer Star Trek TV shows. He was short, extremely obese, although he looked a little skinnier now—no doubt from the end-of-the-world diet plan—and the skin of his neck hung like the jowls of some over-sized shar-pei. He wore a dirty white T-shirt that had a stained and sweaty lived-in look. Around his neck was draped his trademark binoculars, the straps appearing to mark his tee on and below the neckline: an indication that he wore them all the time.
There was nothing to like about Judas, but Clyde figured this little man must have something he could use.
“All right, Judas, what do you have for me that would make me want to do something for you?”
“I know where Thompson keeps his supplies, and I know Thompson is not here anymore and may never come back again, leaving the Kings on their own.” Judas revealed a Cheshire grin of greenish-brown teeth.
While listening to Judas, Clyde noticed shadows pass by the stained glass on each side of his doors, shadows of people headed east.
“Shhh, someone is outside,” Clyde whispered while shuffling around the hallway wall into his kitchen to look through the window. Judas’s footsteps were close behind.
It was the Kings, walking down the street, dressed in clean clothes, and pulling boxes on a hand trolley. Wait, was it Sunday? Were they going to church?
Clyde turned to the pervert, nearly touching his nose and drawing back quickly. “Judas, do you have a clean shirt?”
15.
Mixed Blessings
“And Lord, please bless those who've been taken before us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
In unison with the whole congregation, Bill, Lisa, and Sally responded “amen.” They squeezed each other's hands tightly and released.
After the service, they were among the first in line to shake Pastor John Disciple’s hand on the way out of the narthex.
"Thank yo
u and your family so much for the wonderfully large donation of food.” Pastor John’s grip was firm, the motion vigorous.
"It was nothing, Pastor. We have much more than we need," Lisa responded before Bill could say a word.
Bill shot her a glance that asked why did you divulge that info publicly?
Lisa responded with her own glance that said don’t push it, this was our agreement.
The three of them left the church hand in hand. They were unified as a family, although not in agreement over the results of the action. Lisa was excited that they could give a little and maybe save a few people with the food gifts. Sally was glad to be doing something, anything, positive. Bill was sure it was like a few raindrops in the ocean. After all, what would one or two days’ worth of food mean to those recipients weeks or months after this? They would still die! However, that food might help them survive another few days, which might make the difference between life and death. Regardless, Bill had to agree it felt good going to church for the first time since Easter. That gave him a little sense of peace, something he hadn’t felt since the day before the Event.
A few people back in the line, Clyde and Judas watched and listened to what Bill and Lisa said. Clyde heard what he wanted when Lisa proclaimed “We have more than we need.” Geez, that was stupid. She’s one of those holier-than-thou people who believes in goodness in everyone. Well I have news for you, bitch. People suck! And they would just as soon kill you to take your last bread crumb when it–
He was next up to shake the pastor’s hand.
“Thank you, Pastor John,” he said with believable joy. “That was a glorious sermon.”
“You are most welcome…” Pastor John asked for his name by the inflection of his voice.
“Oh, beg pardon. It’s Clyde. Clyde Clydeston, Pastor. Pleased to meet you,” Clyde added with exuberance. “And this is Judas.”
“Likewise, brother. Thanks for coming. Please come again soon.”
As Clyde and Judas were leaving, behind them they heard Pastor John thanking another parishioner. “Thank you, brother, for the kind donation of food. That will feed a hundred people for a few days.”
Clyde grabbed Judas roughly and pulled him around so that they could both look at who was talking. “We know where the Kings are. They’re not going anywhere. But, everyone here’s got food. Follow this guy, but don’t let him see you and write down his address and get back to me. I think we’re going to have plenty of food.”
16.
Blood and Water!
Western Nebraska
Melanie’s thirst was insatiable as she pushed down again on the old pump handle, summoning another refreshing torrent of water. She drank, filled her water bottle, and then doused her head and neck, cooling her body down, slurping the last drops as the gushing flow trailed off into rivulets. She had had her fill. Not so insatiable after all, she mused.
The well pump was located in back, conveniently visible from the driveway of the farmhouse she had been approaching for the last hour. When she spied the pump, she had paid no mind to the state of the house, or to whether it was occupied or not. She regarded it now.
Before their escape module had crashed, she could see that all of North and South America were dark. This was no doubt the result of the giant solar storm that took out the ISS’s systems. She was pretty sure that anarchy reigned in the cities, but unsure if its ugliness had yet taken root in the more rural western states, where she was. Being one to not take chances, she approached the house with care, hoping that her caution was overdone, and she would find Ma and Pa Kettle having their Sunday dinner. Speaking of which, she was hungry.
She painstakingly peeked in each of the back windows, following the wrap-around porch, finding no one moving about. However, there were several signs of occupancy, and one in particular that caused her concern. Her vision and focus, previously lost in a haze of dehydration, were now sharp and hyper aware as she approached the back door. Its small window, about chest height to her, was broken. She peeked through the jagged opening, looking into the home’s kitchen. A light breeze blew through the opening, brushing the single curtain aside, and then letting it fall back into place. Each breeze revealed more of what she was looking at: lots of dishes and discarded food strewn around the kitchen; a wood-burning stove—it was on, its heat visible—and resting on top, an old camp-fire coffeepot with steam gushing from its spout; and a man.
Melanie hurriedly looked to her left and then right and then back through the breach again, attempting to will the curtain aside once more so that she could see. A man with crazy hair dressed in overalls walked out of a large pantry into the kitchen. He wrapped a folded towel around the coffeepot’s handle to temper the heat.
One of the porch’s old wood floor boards creaked, sounding an alarm behind her. She spun, shocked, as she was staring at the ugliest mug of a man she could ever remember seeing. Rotten breath and the words, “What do we have here?” spilled from a mouth missing several teeth. The gun he pointed at her and everything about him announced this was one bad dude.
At once, she gave a disarming smile, while in one motion she grabbed the sock cuff hanging out of her back pocket and swung it in a large arc, putting her shoulder into it. Ugly Man first smiled back, thinking she was ducking, and then his eyes widened as the sock filled with screws and nails connected with his upper cheek and his eye socket. He didn’t make a sound, as it broke bone and tore flesh, bloodying his already unpleasant features. His unaffected eye, protected by his bulbous nose, rolled back and he fell over, dead.
She grabbed his gun and trotted down the back stairs, galloping a route around the back, working her way to the side of the house. Turning the corner, she darted straight for the road. Home free in maybe one hundred feet. As she was about to clear the side of the house, she saw the fuzzy image of the butt of a rifle arcing toward her face; then, blackness.
~~~
“Wakey wakey, little lady,” came a voice from the depths.
A splash of water filled her mouth and nose, forcing her to cough. Melanie sat up with a start, groggy. An icepick-sharp headache ratcheted her brain. She tried to open her eyes, but her right eye wasn’t working very well, a combination of swelling and dried blood; a window blind of blurriness obstructed most of her vision in that eye. Her good eye took in the nightmare.
Her left wrist was handcuffed to a heavy chain that chewed into her when she pulled at it. In horror, she realized her shirt was torn and her left shoulder and breast were exposed. In a feeble attempt at modesty she yanked up the flap of fabric. The handcuff bit into her more. Never mind the pain, I’m in mortal danger.
“It looks like Sleeping Beauty is awake now,” the same voice announced more loudly. There were more footsteps.
“Look at her, Butch, you messed up her pretty face,” said a voice emerging from the hallway.
“Yah, but she killed Joey,” the other man with the overalls and crazy hair rebutted.
“Joey never looked better. She did him a favor,” said the hallway voice, which belonged to a tall man wearing a cowboy hat. “How’s our little Peeping Tom?”
17.
Quick Decision
Outside of Joliet, Illinois
Darla awoke the next morning to the sounds of voices. Her eyes flicked open, but she kept still, covered by a sheet resplendent in Wonder Woman’s red, white, and blue, which rose and fell with each full breath. Her heart rattling and panic-filled as last night’s ordeal came flooding back, her exposed hand reflexively squeezed the spear gun’s handle for reassurance. After she had confirmed the two intruders were dead, she searched the house for any others, resecured the front door even better, and set up her alarm system once more. Then, she returned to the death scene, Danny still turned away from it as instructed. She dragged the bodies into the master bedroom, throwing towels over the blood and muck so that they wouldn’t have to deal with it in the morning. She tucked in her brother, washed out his underwear, cleaned out her water bottle a
nd refilled it and his as well. Finally, Wonder Woman had enough, and she collapsed into her bed. Surprisingly, both of them had fallen asleep swiftly.
The noises outside brought her back to the here and now, her mind trying to figure out what she was hearing and where the sounds were coming from. It was a bluster of voices, outside their window, carried in on the back of the morning’s delicate breezes. Quietly, so as to not disturb Danny, she swung out of bed wearing only her blue polo shirt and panties, and untangled the spear gun from the bed sheets. She slunk slowly to the window, above where Danny lay rhythmically taking in his raspy breaths. She looked through the spear gun sight, ready to fire, searching for the voices. Her face fell, and then rose again as she laid her weapon on the window sill and bent closer to get a better look.
Hundreds of people were walking by on the same road she and Danny had traveled yesterday, their chattering mumbles unintelligible from this distance. Most were carrying backpacks or rolling a piece of luggage or doing both. They were a motley group of travelers, leisurely walking as if they were early in catching a plane or a train. Their casual gait and friendly banter made them seem oblivious to the apocalypse that had befallen everyone else. Yet, their steps were also purposeful: they knew where they were going, or who they were following. Most importantly, none of them seemed threatening or threatened.
Darla grinned and stretched her limbs, tight from the stress, sore from miles of travel and dehydration. Her decision was quick. Safety in numbers.
“Wake up Danny, it’s time to go,” she whispered softly into his ear.
His eyes popped open. “Are we home?”
“Sorry kiddo, we’re still at that abandoned house—”
He sat straight up, eyes wide. “Where are the bad men?”